


And Then You Became Real and It Was Awful

by blueandbrady



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueandbrady/pseuds/blueandbrady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick has one rule. He hasn't broken it in the two years he's known Harry, and he's not about to break it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then You Became Real and It Was Awful

**Author's Note:**

> I very much would like to thank Fizzy and checkthemargins for letting me rant, rave, ramble, and whine at them while I wrote this. It was much appreciated. 
> 
> Sorry in advance for the lack of a thorough Britpick. I tried my best.

Harry's new house is clean and nice and properly posh and Nick wouldn't mind going back to it, but he knows Harry doesn't like it as much as Nick's flat, so Nick doesn't hesitate in giving the cabbie his address when they pile into it.

"Cold, cold, cold," Harry's mumbling, teeth chattering as he crowds into Nick's personal space in the backseat. He tries to stick his hands under Nick's jacket and get skin, but Nick knows his tricks and is prepared.

"I don't think so, Styles," Nick says, capturing both hands in one of his, fingers curling around Harry's wrists to make sure he can't escape.

Harry's all devious grin as he's no doubt thinking of ways to extricate himself, but Nick's ready, almost anticipating it when Harry pushes up with his legs and tries to throw them both off balance.

What Nick's not ready for is Harry to overbalance quite so much and fall into him and then roll off the seat into the foot space. He lands with an oomph and a quiet "ow," but otherwise he's fine and laughing.

The cabbie is giving them both an unimpressed look through the rearview mirror, so Nick stops laughing and pulls Harry up but makes sure to keep some space between them. "Thought you said you could hold your liquor, Mr. Popstar," he teases, and Harry bats at him to shut him up.

"'M fine." Nick starts poking him in the side until he's all the way against the door, wiggling and doing that hiccupy laugh he does after a round of tequila shots. "Stop, stop, okay, fine, 'm a little pissed." He pouts at Nick, but Nick is very much immune. Mostly. "'s'your fault."

"Told you not to challenge Pix, but do you listen to me? No. No, not to me. I've only known her and her ways for years."

The cab comes to an abrupt stop, almost as if the driver wanted to give them whiplash. Harry climbs out of the car and runs down the stairs to Nick's door, letting himself in with the key Nick gave him ages ago, leaving Nick to deal with paying the driver and finding his own key. "Bloody popstars. All rubbish," he mutters as he gets out the notes to pay and find his keys in the process.

Inside the flat, Harry's kicked his shoes off in the middle of the living room _again_ and has thrown his coat over the kitchen chair closest to the door, but he's nowhere in sight. "Harry?"

"Mine!" Harry yells back from deeper inside the flat, which can mean only one thing. Nick groans and follows the sound.

"Get out of my bed, you tosser," Nick says before he even reaches his room. Just like he suspected, Harry is curled up in the middle of Nick's bed, messing it up. Nick gets a peek of Harry's sleeve that's poking out from underneath the blankets and makes a sound close to a squawk. "That is my jumper!"

"Cold," Harry mumbles again and burrows deeper into the bed sheets.

"You're an absolute menace. I don't know why I keep you around."

It’s muffled because Harry’s face is most certainly pressed into a pillow, but Nick hears, "'Cos you think'm pretty, and I keep you young."

Nick snorts. He’s maybe half right. "Sure.” He strips down to his pants and pulls on a threadbare t-shirt to sleep in and then pushes at a mound of blankets that he is reasonably sure is Harry’s knee. “Shove over.” 

Harry wiggles until there’s enough space for Nick to crawl into the bed, but then he's crowding right back in, throwing a bare leg across Nick's and getting his curls in Nick's mouth. "Mmm, warm."

"Yeah, make yourself comfortable, I'm just furniture," Nick says, batting hair out of his face.

"Shh," Harry whispers and flails around until he gets an arm out from underneath the blankets and is able to press a finger against Nick's lips.

"Brat."

Harry huffs, like that’s an insult deep to his core, and starts moving around again, jabbing an elbow into Nick's stomach and pressing a palm to Nick's chest as he pushes himself up. When he meets Nick’s eyes, though, he’s grinning and his hair is falling into their faces. "Grimmy."

"Styles," Nick says wearily. Harry’s grin rarely means anything good for Nick. Last time Nick ended up with a sprained ankle and a bruised ego.

Harry’s smile morphs from mischievous into something much more dangerous for Nick. His gaze very clearly drops to Nick’s mouth and before Nick can react, Harry’s closed his eyes and pressed their lips together. Maybe it’s because Nick’s still a bit drunk or because he doesn’t really believe it’s happening that he doesn’t turn his head or push Harry away. Instead he kisses back, just a little, only a moment really, to return the pressure and let his top lip drag over Harry’s bottom one. 

The noise Harry makes when Nick moves out of reach makes Nick want to dive back in, properly. But he doesn't. He can't. 

“No?” Harry asks quietly. He hasn’t moved but Nick can feel how he’s tensed up. 

“It’s probably a terrible idea,” Nick replies with instead. He spreads his fingers out over Harry’s back and hugs him, tries to get him to relax again. It’s already weird. 

“Is it?” Harry says, confused. “Why?” 

“Because we’re not those kinds of mates, Harry.” 

Harry frowns. "Well maybe we should be then.”

"Maybe," Nick says, more placating than considering. Harry's frown disappears and he leans in again, but Nick is faster and paying more attention this time. " _Maybe_ when you're not pissed and about to pass out on me, literally." 

Harry's eyes are red and tired and he's obviously trying desperately to focus and can't. Nick doesn't smile because that could be misconstrued as encouragement. "'m not."

"You are, but it's okay. You went up against Pixie and tequila. I'm surprised you've not got your head in a toilet." 

"I'll get her next time," he mumbles. He clears his throat and meets Nick’s eyes the best he can. "We'll talk later? I think we should be the kind of mates that do." 

"Sure, later," Nick says. 

"'Kay. Sleep now."

Harry's heavy and hot as a furnace from Nick's shoulder to his knee, but when he tries to move him, Harry whines and clings tighter. Nick gives up and lets him stay where he is, afraid that it's like quicksand: the more he struggles, the faster his demise. That's certainly been the case with most Harry-related things thus far. 

*

Nick slowly wakes to the sound of talking a few meters away. Harry's still radiating suffocating heat to his right, so Nick knows it's not him and opens his eyes. 

"Actually spooning, Gellz. Yeah, it's like -- oh, he's awake. I'll call you back. Yeah, I already sent it to Aimee. Well, good morning, Grimmy," Henry says, smiling. 

Nick groans and flaps a hand in his direction. 

"Had a good night after you left the pub, I see." 

Nick turns his head to shove it into a pillow but is greeted by Harry's bony shoulder instead. Huh. He hadn’t realized they were that close. "'s not what it looks like," he says because he has to at least say it.

"Right, of course not," says Henry and Nick can see he's still smiling like the bastard he is. 

"Why're you here?" Nick mumbles, running a hand over his face. 

"You stood me up over breakfast and weren’t answering your mobile. I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or summat."

“Not dead,” he groans. He feels like it, though.

“No, you are not,” Henry agrees, and he’s smiling again. “What you _are_ is in bed with Harry Styles.”

“Harry Styles is a filthy bed thief,” Nick says. “Fuck, why’re you here again?”

“Breakfast,” Henry repeats. 

“Are you sure?” Nick yawns. “I don’t do breakfast at the weekend.” 

“I believe you said something about a meeting afterwards.” Henry cranes his neck, peering around Nick to the mass of blankets Harry is under. “I can see how your priorities could have changed, though.”

"Oh, shit. Finchy's meeting," Nick says and sits up, closing his eyes against the spinning room. "What time is it?" 

"Half nine." 

"Ugh," Nick groans. He’s barely a half hour to work with, so Finchy is just going to have to deal with odeur d'pub and Harry Styles. And last night’s clothes at this rate. 

Nick starts to get out of bed but first reaches for his mobile on the nightstand out of habit only to find it suspiciously absent. That would explain Nick not hearing it this morning but not where it went. Except... Nick turns back to Harry and pokes him in the side until he gets a groggy groan and then a slightly more irritated one. "Did you turn off my mobile, you little brat?"

"Loud," Harry mumbles.

"I have to go to work and it's my flat. I'm allowed to be loud."

Harry makes a pathetic whining sound and then pulls his arm out from under the blanket, Nick's phone in hand. He blindly shoves it at him. "Alarm was loud." 

"I cannot believe you," Nick says, and turns back to Henry, like _See what I deal with?_

Henry rolls his eyes, unsympathetic as usual. "Put on some pants. I'll be in the lounge."

"I am wearing pants!" Nick says, but Henry isn't listening. "I have to go now," he tells Harry. "I should be back around one if you're still going to be here." 

Harry doesn't reply, already asleep again. 

*

Nick walks into the restaurant where he is supposed to be meeting Henry, Dave, Pixie, and Aimee when Aimee gets his attention by calling out, "Where's the boyfriend?" and then giggling with Pixie. 

Nick sends an unimpressed look Henry's way and receives a big smile in return. "Very funny,” he says, taking a seat. 

“Tell me, was it everything you imagined?” asks Pixie.

“Did you stare into each other’s eyes the whole time and profess your undying love?” says Aimee. 

“How big is it, really?” Henry asks. 

Nick looks to Dave, waiting for his contribution but he just shrugs and takes a sip of his wine. Good lad. Nick likes Dave.

“Hilarious, all of you,” says Nick. Let a mate sleep in your bed, accidentally spoon him, and you never live it down. The waiter comes by and pours a glass of wine, and Nick thanks him. When he reaches for the menu again, he notices the others still staring at him intently. “What?” 

“What?” Pixie repeats, looking at him like he’s gone mad. “You know what.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Is it official now? Finally?” 

“We’re really happy for you,” says Henry, patting Dave’s hand, and Aimee nods. 

Nick blinks and takes in the faces of his crazy friends. No one is laughing. They’re all staring at him quite seriously, actually, and it’s kind of creepy. He sends Henry another unimpressed look before saying, slowly, clearly, ”Nothing. Happened.” 

“But.” Pixie frowns and gets out her mobile. “This picture. I. We just thought.” 

“What picture?” Nick looks at Henry who has his head turned and is waving across the restaurant. There is no one waving back. “Someone show me this picture right now.” 

Pixie hands over her mobile with the picture already pulled up. It’s obviously Nick in the picture, but Harry is barely visible at all aside from the long, brown curls mixing with and standing out from Nick’s own hair. The blanket is pulled up and you can tell Nick has his arm around the other body, and it does look quite intimate, Nick will give them that, but it’s not particularly incriminating. Nick has been in that exact same position with everyone at the table right now. Even Dave after a particularly wild house party in America. 

Nick shrugs and hands the mobile back. “I don’t know what to tell you. He stole my bed, and I refused to sleep in my own guest room.” He probably _should_ have slept in the guest bed, but that’s none of their business. 

He watches as all of their faces collectively fall. Pixie says, “So you and Harry aren’t --”

"Harry and I are still not shagging, no. Sorry to disappoint," Nick says. 

"But it looked -- And Harry -- are you sure?" Henry stutters. 

“Quite sure,” says Nick. 

“Wait,” Aimee says, pointing a finger at him. “It’s not because of your,” she waves her arm around, “that thing of yours, right?” 

“What thing?” 

“That thing,” Pixie says, and Henry nods along. “That thing where you don’t actually date the people you like because you think you’ll... What does he think he’ll do again?” 

“Ruin them. Scar them for life. Send them running away crying, never to be seen or heard from again,” says Henry dryly. 

“Right. That thing,” says Aimee. 

“I.” Nick closes his mouth and tries to spread his glare evenly four ways. “That is not a thing I have,” he lies. “And even if it were --”

“It is,” says Aimee. 

“ _If_ it were, those are all very good points, so thank you for settling this by bringing them up.”

Aimee is frowning, and Pixie and Henry are exchanging looks, but it’s Dave who coughs and picks up his menu. “I’m feeling lamb. Anyone else feeling lamb?” 

Aimee holds his gaze for another moment before shaking her head, clearly disappointed. She picks up the menu and joins the conversation about lamb versus chicken, and Nick breathes a sigh of relief.

*

The thing that Nick can’t stop thinking about while he’s brushing his teeth later, as he stares at Harry’s spare toothbrush in the cup on the sink, is how they don’t even have all their facts straight. Being with Harry for real was never on offer; Harry only wanted a drunken snog, and that didn’t happen because Nick can’t do the drunken snog thing with someone he fancies anymore. Call him getting old or call him jaded but the bruise hurts when you press on it and Nick’s lost the time and energy to pretend it doesn’t. 

And it’s not like Harry would be an exception. 

*

Nick is in the middle of a link when Matt jumps up from his rolly chair and scurries out of the room. Nick sends a curious look LMC's way, but in her place is a blur of blonde hair and leopard print leggings, so he finishes what he's saying and queues up two records to play back-to-back. 

"Alright, where's the bloody fire?" Nick asks, removing his headphones. No one answers him, room nearly empty, and then he sees through the glass. Harry is in the Live Lounge and so is everyone else. Figures. 

Nick presses his face against the glass until Harry sees him and starts making faces back, and then he's being hailed into the other room. 

"What're you doing here? You trying to cause a riot?" Nick asks. 

Harry grins, dimples out in full force. Nick wants to put a bag over his head. "Well, you know how much I've missed Finchy here," Harry says and claps Matt on the shoulder. Matt is positively beaming. 

"Fincham but not me," says Nick, put upon. "My, my, how the times have changed."

Harry shrugs. "What can I say? I just haven't missed you that much since yesterday."

Nick knows Harry's only joking, but he can already feel that unpleasant tightening in his stomach that tells him he doesn't want to share Harry with anyone, that he wants to be the one Harry misses most. It's stupid and it's petty and it's not _supposed_ to happen, Nick's taken _precautions_ , but there it is anyway.

Nick huffs and yanks Harry into an awkward headlock, free hand destroying any sense of order Harry was aiming for with his hair this morning, and Harry sags against him, laughing and only pretending to try to get away. Nick knows Harry has more strength than he ever uses on anyone, preferring to be lazy and manhandled. Nick can appreciate that quality in a person. 

"Well, when you two are finished," says Matt, and oh, right, there are other people in the room and he’s in the middle of hosting a radio show. Nick lets go of Harry and Matt smirks. 

"Right, I have a job, Harold. How dare you distract me like this." 

Harry grins. "Terribly sorry," he says even though he clearly isn't. 

Nick's out of breath when he jogs back over to his station, and he accidentally cuts off the end of the second song thinking he’s let a few seconds of dead radio elapse. Matt shakes his head at him but is much more concerned with sitting Harry out of the view of the cameras. 

Harry spends the last half hour of the show flinging paper clips and rubber bands at Nick. Nick’s trying to focus on the notes Matt’s written out for him and not messing up any more links, so he can’t be sure, but he’s fairly certain it’s Ian and Fiona feeding him all the ammo. He’s got a whole team full of traitors. 

By the time the show is actually over, Harry’s wandered off again, but Nick finds him down the hall, surrounded by the girls in the office. Nick rolls his eyes and reaches through the mass. "If you don't mind, I'll just be taking this," he says, tugging on Harry's arm. 

Harry’s grinning and his cheeks are flushed and his hair is possibly even more of a mess than before. “Hi.” 

Nick shakes his head and tries to fix Harry’s hair, to at least get the part right again. “Christ, what did those girls do to you?” 

“They’re just affectionate,” Harry says with a shrug, like he really doesn’t mind, and that’s the thing. He probably doesn’t mind. It’s something he deals with every day but genuinely never seems bothered by. Nick could never be like that. He loves people, but it has to be on his own terms. Harry’s just too good for him. For anyone, really. 

“Patience of a Saint, Harold.” Nick puts a hand on Harry’s back to get him moving and keeps it there to stop him from getting distracted by the lyrics on the walls. There are already enough doodles in Harry’s scrawl to perhaps outnumber all other guest signatures. 

“I guess,” he says. “Oh, hey, can we go back to yours? I’m starving.” 

Nick looks at him funny. “You’re starving and you want to go back to mine? Have you hit your head?” 

“Nooo.” Harry shakes his head and then he’s doing that thing with his hair, flicking it more into his face and then brushing it off to the side. “There’s a roast. I put it on hours ago.” 

“You’ve a roast at mine?” Nick waves goodbye to Janie, the receptionist, and Derrin, the morning security guard, as they exit the building. “You broke into my flat this morning to put a roast on?” 

“I don’t think it counts as ‘breaking in’ when I have a key, but okay, yes.” 

Nick throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Don’t ever leave me,” he says. “I mean it.” 

Harry laughs but says, “I don’t intend to.” 

*

The terrible thing is that the roast tastes just as good as Nick had imagined it would. It leaves him sated and sleepy and off his guard, which was clearly Harry's intention. 

"I just think it's a bit odd, is all," Harry says, apropos of nothing. He's staring intently at a carrot speared onto his fork.

"What is?"

Harry shrugs. "That all your friends think we're sleeping together but we've never even properly kissed." 

Nick bites a large piece of roast and chews slowly, thinking of how to answer. The extra time doesn't help. "An expression of jealousy, definitely." 

"Sure." Harry nods. "Makes sense." 

Nick gives a little chuckle and hopes it doesn't sound as forced as it is. He's almost out of food on the plate and he's too full for more, so if he can just steer this conversation --

"But not really?" Harry amends, brow furrowed. "They can't all fancy me. Or you." Harry sets his fork down with a soft clang. “So what is it really?” 

Nick avoids Harry’s eyes as he thinks. The best lie is a half truth, right? “Taking the piss,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. “They remember how much I fancied you back when we first met. And now we’re friends, so.” 

Harry’s nodding but he still looks confused, like he feels like he should understand but doesn’t. “Okay.” 

“And now that’d just be weird, obviously,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. “Like, we’re such good mates now that to be more than that would be really weird.” 

“Right,” Harry says slowly. “Really weird.” 

“I mean,” Nick says, and he gets up, starts clearing away their plates. “Can you imagine? It’d be like kissing your brother or summat.” 

Oh, god, he’s just compared kissing Harry to kissing his brother when that is so, so, so far from anything resembling the truth, but he can’t take it back now. 

“Oh,” Harry says, and coughs. “Yeah, no, I get what you mean. That is weird.” 

“Right.” Nick turns around, able to rinse the dishes for only so long. He wipes his palms on his jeans. “So, you know, don’t let them get to you or whatever.”

Harry smiles, but it’s pinched and awkward and Nick pretends he can’t tell. “Nah, I won’t. I can handle it.”

Nick nods, once. Right. That’s one of them then. 

*

For such a tiny dog, Puppy poos an awful lot. Nick’s already scooped up two baggies of the stuff. Aimee’s only had to bend down once for Thurston. 

“Disgustin’,” Nick grumbles. 

“Yes,” Aimee agrees and then says, “I’ve spoken to Harry recently.”

“Have you? That’s nice.” Puppy drags Nick over to the edge of the shallow pond and looks up pleadingly. “Oh, alright,” Nick says. Those _eyes_. Literal puppy eyes. Nick’s not _dead_ inside, Christ. “Go on then.” 

“He seems to think something very odd,” Aimee says. 

Nick nods. “As is often the case with him.” 

“Did you, by any chance, say or imply that the thought of kissing him is, and I quote, gross?” 

Puppy is having the literal time of her life splashing around in the water by the looks of it. Nick doesn’t remember what it’s like to feel such unbridled joy. “He may have misconstrued our conversation,” he says.

“Really,” Aimee says flatly. Nick’s not looking at her, but he knows one of her eyebrows is arched judgingly. 

“Yes.” Puppy barks, getting Nick’s attention, but she’s apparently just in a heated debate with a soggy stick. “You wanna get margaritas for lunch?” 

“No,” Aimee says. “I want you to tell me what you said to Harry.” 

Nick makes a face. He’d rather not. He’d rather pretend he didn’t say anything at all. That’s his favorite method of dealing with things. “Nothing he didn’t already know. Hey, how about we get tacos to go _with_ the margaritas?” 

“Nick.” 

Nick huffs. “I said kissing him would be weird like kissing a brother or something. Okay? 

"You said _what_?" Aimee closes her eyes like she's in pain. "Nick, you didn't."

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Nick tugs on Puppy's leash and gets them walking again. He can't stand still and do this. "It just came out."

"I honestly don't understand how your brain works sometimes," she says. "Look. You have to fix this. Harry thinks you mean it."

Nick doesn't see the connection between her two points. "I'd rather not."

Aimee rubs her forehead. "You are not this much of an asshole."

Nick is. He very much is. He's not a nice person. "It's for the best."

"For who? What is going on inside that head of yours?" Aimee touches his arm. "You can talk to me about it, you know."

Nick grimaces. He doesn't _want_ to _talk_ about it. He wants to pretend it doesn't exist until it goes away. "It's called self-preservation. It's preemptive. And stuff."

Aimee shakes her head slowly. "It's been two years, Nick. He hasn't run off yet."

"But he will," Nick says before he can stop himself. "Or would. Whatever."

"Harry is not going anywhere, you idiot. For some reason, and fuck if I know it, that kid _really_ likes you. And don't give me that look, you're not that oblivious."

This is counterproductive to Nick's brilliant plan of _ignore it forever and ever until death_ , and he doesn’t like it at all. "I can see that there's _something_ , yes, but I'm trying to keep that something a nothing. I like this nothing. Something leads to a mess and nothing keeps things just like they are. I happen to like things as they are. I'd rather have nothing and keep it than have something only for it to run away. Okay? Okay. Good. Lunch now?"

Aimee sighs audibly. Nick can tell she has so much more she wants to say. Instead she says, "Yeah, I could eat."

"Yaaaay," Nick cheers and bends down to check Puppy's leash but freezes when he feels arms being wrapped around him. "What are you doing?" Nick asks and Aimee squeezes tighter.

"I love you," she mumbles into his shoulder. "I just want you to be happy."

“No,” Nick says, trying to push her off but it’s like she’s suddenly acquired extra limbs. “Stop this.” 

Aimee shakes her head and presses her face to Nick’s back. “I love you, but you’re so dumb.” 

Nick snorts. “Great pep talk, Aimes. You’ve found your new calling.” 

Aimee squeezes one last time before standing. “Come on, Thurston,” she says, tugging on the dog’s leash. “It’s taco and margarita time because Nick is emotionally stunted.” 

Nick watches Aimee tug Thurston away but not before Thurston gives Nick a look not unlike one of Aimee’s. Great. Nick’s being judged by Aimee _and_ a dog that doesn’t even come up to his shin. That’s a new low. 

*

Nick should have known that wasn't the end of the meddling.

“We’re what?” he asks, surely to have misheard. 

“Waiting on Harry,” Pixie repeats, smiling widely. 

Nick sighs, and look around. Henry and Dave are by the box office. Pixie is cuddled under the arm of her current boyfriend, Roger. Or Randy. Something that starts with an ‘R’. And Aimee is a few feet away, flirting in a completely unsubtle way with Ian, which Nick didn’t even know was a thing. He sighs again. 

He was perfectly fine with being the third wheel. He’s _used to it_. This was completely unnecessary. 

Nick leans against the brick of the cinema wall and pulls out his phone to have something to mess with. Maybe Harry won’t show up and this night won’t be awkward as fuck. 

Nick needs new friends. 

A cab pulls up a few minutes later, and Nick can tell it’s Harry by his hands alone when he opens the door. He looks nice in jeans that don’t have holes in them and a plain, white v-neck. It looks like his hair has been washed recently even. 

He’s gorgeous. As always.

Nick looks back down at the phone and pretends he didn’t see him pull up. 

That only lasts for so long because after paying the driver, Harry comes directly over and leans against the wall beside him. “Hey.” 

He smells really nice and Nick is turning in toward him before he realizes it. “Hey, popstar.” 

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry says, looking around. No one is paying them any attention, so Harry shrugs. “Or not. I was on the other side of town when Aimee texted me. I don’t even know what I’m seeing.” 

Of course Harry would drop whatever he’s doing and race across town without knowing what he’s getting himself into. More of those "good person" traits you couldn't pay Nick to have. “Something dreadful and dull,” he says. "Henry picked." 

"I heard that," Henry singsongs, not sounding offended in the least. “We’re watching a delightful romantic comedy, Harry. In French.”

Nick waits until his face is turned before rolling his eyes. Harry doesn't miss it, though, and smiles.

“Will there be subtitles? I don't speak French," Harry says. 

"None of us do," says Aimee. She gives Henry a look when he huffs. "None. Some _think_ they do, but they don't." 

"Just for that, I won't tell you whenever the subtitles and speech don't match," says Henry. 

"Oh, no," Aimee mock gasps. "Whatever will we do?" 

"You can tell me, Henny dear," Dave says, linking their fingers.

"Thanks for inviting me," Harry whispers, and Nick has to lean in, a real hardship, to hear. "I thought things might have been, you know, weird or something." 

Nick tries not to look as tense as he suddenly feels. Right. Pretending Harry maybe forgot is officially a no-go. He tries to smile, and laugh it off. "Nope. No weird here. Have you got weird on you?" Harry shakes his head. "Then we've not got weird anywhere. Other people maybe but not us." 

"Good," Harry says, confused little crease disappearing from between his eyes as he smiles again. 

"Are you coming or what?" Ian asks, holding the door open, and Nick only just then notices all the others have gone. 

"Don't you sass me, young Ian Chaloner," Nick says, allowing himself to be dragged through the door. He points a finger in Ian's face as they pass. "There'll be words at work on Monday. Don't think I didn't see all that." He waves a hand toward the general outside area. 

Ian does not look properly chastised but Harry's tugging him by the wrist rather determinedly, so he lets it slide. For now. 

He's got his own problems. 

*

If anyone asks, Nick was invited to three extravagant, popstar filled parties tonight but graciously declined them all. Sometimes a man wants to stay in, drink a bottle of wine, and watch a few episodes of The Great British Bake Off before going to bed early. It's not a crime.

He gets through one episode and half the bottle of wine when his plans are interrupted.

"If you're not the Queen, I don't care," Nick mumbles as he reaches for his phone. There are two texts from Harry still lit up on the screen. Nick sighs. "Or you, I guess."

_can I come over?_ is followed by _tom and lou are kicking me out :(_

Nick tucks the wine bottle under his arm and replies _no one likes being second rate Harold_

Barely a moment later, _never second rate in my heart xx_

Nick snorts. Harry's flirting is both _dumb_ and out of control. _oh shut up_

_no :p see you in a bit xx_

"Ugh," Nick groans and tosses the phone to the other end of the sofa.

Not that he's opposed to Harry coming over, but that makes it every day this week and a good portion of last that he's seen Harry in person. Surely all this time in Harry's presence can't be good for his health.

Nick’s down to tilting his head back and hitting the bottom of the bottle over his open mouth in hopes of getting the last few drops by the time Harry lets himself in. He takes one look at Nick and starts laughing.

"Don't laugh at me in my own home," Nick says. "And bring me another bottle."

Harry yells from the kitchen a few seconds later. "The last bottle or the _box_?"

"Bring both," Nick calls back. "And no judgy-judgy! Maybe I'm nostalgic for the tastes from my poor youth!" 

“Sure, of course,” Harry says, carrying in both and a wine glass for himself. “Are you watching Bake Off? Oh, god.” He settles in next to Nick on the sofa. 

“Yes!” Nick says, ignoring how Harry’s suddenly all cuddly warmth along his side. "I'm studying."

"People tend to study baking by, you know, actually baking,” he says. His eyes are twinkling.

"Hush," Nick says and shoves a hand in Harry's face, knocking him over.

Harry takes the change in position as an opportunity to stretch out and drape his legs across Nick’s lap, but not before poking Nick in the nose with a sock covered toe. Nick swats him away but Harry laughs and does it again. “Hey, we should order some food,” he says, dropping his foot. 

"I had a turkey sandwich before you got here." 

"Mmm, turkey sandwich," Harry says. Nick wishes his turkey sandwich were as good as whatever one Harry's remembering. "But we need more." Harry sits up with some speed and agility that Nick’s not seen in himself in at least five years and opens the drawer under the coffee table. He pulls out all the take-away menus. Most are worn and marked up from Harry already. 

“Yes, well, feel free to tell me what I’m having at any time,” Nick says when Harry steals his mobile to order. Harry sticks his tongue out. Nick rolls his eyes.

Apparently they're having Chinese, and Nick only finds that out when Harry makes him get it at the door. Nick makes sure to call Harry a few names when getting up. He won't be bossed around in his own flat by some teenage popstar with fluffy hair. 

They run out of wine by the time the take-away containers are empty, and the telly gets traded in for music on Nick's iPod. 

"Who's this?" Harry asks, starfished on the floor.

"I dunno." Nick rolls over and looks down at him. "ToddlaT burned me a disk like it's the nineteen nineties again and told me to give it a listen. It's alright, innit?"

"Not bad."

"You're not bad," Nick says nonsensically, and sits up. "Wait, where's the rest of the wine? Did you drink almost that whole box?” 

As if on cue, Harry burps and then grins sheepishly. “Um. No?” 

“You might be an even worse houseguest than Finchy. I would get hashtag-go-home-Harry trending if I weren’t afraid of your fans swarming my flat.” 

“They probably would,” says Harry, wobbling a little as he pushes off the floor and back up onto the sofa. 

“No probably about it,” Nick says. Then he remembers again that there’s no more wine. “You drank all my wine!” 

“Yeah,” Harry says and he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “What else’ve you got?” 

“Whatever it is, it’s all mine,” Nick says, and gets up, a bit wobbly himself. He hadn’t had anything other than that turkey sandwich before that whole bottle of wine. It wasn’t a poor decision _until_ Harry came over. 

Harry uses the extra space on the sofa to stretch out again and folds his arms behind his head, eyes fluttering closed. Harry's shirt rides up a bit, exposing a thin strip of what Nick knows is a very toned stomach. It's practically screaming to be touched. Nick makes himself turn around and walk away. 

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to get over this, this _thing_ when Harry is _always around_. Always around with that stupid hair and those stupid dimples and that stupid habit of hanging onto Nick’s every word. Nick is trying to do the mature, responsible thing for once here, and this is how the universe repays him. 

An excited squeak seems to short circuit his brain, and he forgets about mixers or even glasses as heads back into the living room with the chilled bottle sticking to his hands. 

"What have you done to Puppy?" he asks, seeing only one of Harry's arms in the air, holding Puppy up. Harry might be making zooming noises but Nick can only focus on the way his little dog's legs are kicking excitedly. 

"What did you bring?" Harry asks, sitting up, cradling the little dog to his chest. 

Nick raises an eyebrow and looks down at the vodka bottle. He should trade Harry, right? For the little dog's honor. They make the trade at the same time. Harry cuddles the bottle and Nick cuddles his little dog. 

Puppy licks his face and Nick says, "Oh, yes, that's right, Puppy, you're safe now. Free from the clutches of that nasty popstar Harry Styles." It's out of his mouth before he can even filter in the chat he'd just had with Aimee. Harry doesn't seem to notice, though. He just grins and giggles. Ugh. Nick does _not_ have the time for this. He sets Puppy down and watches her toddle right back to Harry, "Give that here then if you're not going to drink it." 

Harry hands the vodka over and scoops Puppy back up into his arms, mumbling something about Nick being evil and keeping something so precious and cute locked up. 

“I was trying to _relax_ ,” Nick says, defending himself. “She gets so excited when I’m home, and now she’ll never calm down with you here.” 

“That’s okay, isn’t it, Puppy? That’s okay. Tell Grimmy that’s okay,” Harry says, bouncing Puppy in his arms. 

He's being tested. He has to be. Harry has his and Puppy’s faces smushed together and he’s making stupid, nonsensical sounds, and Nick is only human. “I’m getting diet coke. If you want another mixer, get it yourself," he says, walking back out.

“‘m kay.”

Harry hasn’t done more than push his empty glass closer to Nick’s by the time Nick returns. He’s lying flat on his back, letting Puppy walk all over him and is apparently enjoying it. 

Nick joins them on the floor and settles in to watch Harry Styles play with a puppy. Because each thing on its own isn't enough. 

“Do _not_ spill this on my newly redone floors, do you hear me?” Nick says, handing Harry the wine glass full of vodka and diet coke. 

“Yes, mum,” Harry says, and gulps down half of it in one go. He makes sure Nick is watching before he sets it down on the table with exaggerated care, and then turns his attention back to the dog. “Puppy! Puppy wants to play, doesn’t she? You want to play, don’t you, Puppy?” Harry bounces around on all fours in front of her, mimicking her movements.

Nick wants to stomp his foot and yell _stop paying attention to my dog and pay attention to me!!_ but settles for, “I’m starting to suspect you didn’t come to see me at all.” 

Harry flops onto his back and clutches his chest. “Oh, no, Puppy! He got us. He figured us out!” 

Puppy barks and licks Harry’s face. Harry laughs through it. 

Nick downs his drink before he crawls over to them and scoops Puppy up, hugging her to his chest. “Puppy likes me best.” 

“Heyyy,” Harry says, hands curving around Nick’s, trying to steal Puppy back. Puppy whines and tries to lick both of their faces. 

“Nope, she’s mine.” 

“Well, you should learn to share,” Harry says, changing tactics. He crawls up behind Nick and rests his chin on Nick's shoulder, and Nick tenses. A second later Harry starts making clicking and cooing noises, stealing Puppy’s attention. Nick mentally calls himself a few choice words and tries to relax.

Harry's mouth brushes Nick's cheek, and Nick quickly rationalizes it as a consequence of Harry being the least graceful person ever. "Puppy, tch tch, hey, Puppy."

Puppy is wriggling as much as her little dog body can, protesting the tight grip Nick's suddenly got on her, so Nick lets go, body working on auto-pilot, and watches her shake herself out and then bounce around their legs.

With Puppy down bouncing around on the floor, there's no reason for Harry to still be draped across Nick like this, but he doesn't make any move to pull away. Nick breathes slowly and steadily. 

"Nick," Harry says quietly, and Nick doesn't like the sound of it. There are giant, metaphorical red lights flashing inside Nick’s head. _Abort. Abort._.

"Um," Nick says eloquently. He should do something. He should move. He should definitely _move move move_ \--

Harry cups Nick's jaw, drawing him in, and Nick closes his eyes, not wanting to see. "I don't think this feels weird," he says, lips ghosting over Nick's.

Nick wants to tell him that it was never weird, that that was never the problem, that that _isn't_ the problem, but he can't. Nick is a mess and a disaster and Harry doesn't know that side of him and he doesn't need to know. "Harry," Nick says, and he meant for it to sound firm, like a reprimand but instead it comes out barely more than a whisper. Fuck.

"Yeah," Harry says, like he agrees, and then Harry's kissing him, sure and determined, and Nick opens to it, can't even think about not when it feels like this. Harry's mouth is so soft, and his tongue is hot like fire when it licks inside. Nick can't _breathe_. He does not need to know what Harry's teeth feel like pressing into his bottom lip or how Harry sounds when Nick sucks on his tongue. He's spent two years purposefully not thinking about these things. 

Then, “Nick, please,” Harry whines, sounds like Nick feels, and his hands shake as they grab at Nick’s shoulders and pull, taking Nick with him to the floor. Harry is gorgeous spread out, hair a hopeless mess around his head as he licks his lips and tries to catch his breath, and Nick goes when he's tugged down into another kiss. Harry’s hands slip beneath Nick’s t-shirt, one spread wide over the small of his back and the other slowly sneaking its way up Nick’s chest, and Nick shivers, feels it in his toes. 

Harry keeps making these throaty, needy noises into Nick's mouth like he can't help it or isn't aware he's doing it, and they get worse when Nick runs a hand up Harry's side, feeling out the muscle beneath his fingers. Nick wants to touch him _everywhere_ , find out what other sounds he makes. 

Their kisses get wetter and rougher, dirtier. Nick's lips are already stinging from how brutally Harry isn't holding back, and Nick is so hard it hurts. He pulls off to breathe, so Harry moves to press kisses to his jaw and down his neck, sucking hard on his Adam's apple, and Nick hisses, arms giving out.

Harry takes advantage and spreads his legs wider, catching Nick between them. He's as hard as Nick is and Nick knows this because he can feel it, cocks pressed up against each other through a few, thin layers of fabric. Nick jerks into it, feels Harry try to do the same and whine when he can't, too pinned under Nick. 

Nick's knees are already protesting the hard floor, Nick is not twenty anymore and he has a perfectly good bed not many meters away, but then Harry's moaning and nodding rapidly, hands dropping to Nick's hips. He finds a balance between Nick's thrusts, and -- god, Harry has absolutely no rhythm anywhere else in his life -- frees a hand, using it to fist Nick's hair and slant their mouths together again. 

"You can - whatever you want," Harry says, breathless against Nick's lips. 

Nick moans. Christ, the things he wants to do to Harry. He can’t have that kind of encouragement. 

All sorts of things he hasn’t allowed himself to think about are flashing through his head but they stop abruptly when Nick feels Harry’s fingers fumbling with the button on his jeans. Harry’s fingers are literally seconds away from getting inside Nick’s pants and he just can’t. This can’t happen. 

Nick captures Harry’s hands in his and pins them beside his head, and he lifts his hips up and away when Harry tries rocking them together again. Oh, god, what has he done. 

"Nick?" Harry says, voice rough. 

Nick shakes his head, and then slowly opens his eyes, looking down at Harry underneath him. He feels his stomach lurch. Harry looks like he’s been fucking mauled. His hair is knotted and twisted and his lips are so red and swollen that Nick can’t help but think _used_ , and there’s a flush high on his cheeks that spreads down his neck and none of it compares to Harry’s fucking eyes. They’re looking at Nick like he's something. Like he _matters_. Harry’s looking at him like he's _everything_.

Nick’s breath catches. No one -- absolutely no one -- who has known Nick as long as Harry has still looks at him like that.

He can’t lose that.

“I can’t do this,” Nick says, trying not to sound like he’s panicking when he’s freaking out inside. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“What?” 

Nick pushes to his feet quickly. Puppy perks up from where she's been napping in front of the telly and scurries after him. He's nearly out of the lounge by the time Harry’s sitting up, watching him run away. 

“Nick,” Harry tries, but Nick flaps a hand in his direction that he hopes conveys _please just stay there, all the way over there_ , and Harry deflates, sucking his lip into his mouth. He looks confused, and a little bit hurt, but Nick is not going to think about that right now. He can’t think about that. He is going to go to his bedroom, crawl under the comforter, and never come out. 

Nick strips down and starts on just that. He punches the pillow into a ball and smashes his face into it. 

He is an actual disaster. He set _one_ rule for himself and then went and fucked it up. 

A flash of Harry's face, crestfallen and dejected and yet still stunningly attractive flashes behind Nick's eyes, and Nick groans. If he ruined everything because of this, he will never forgive himself. He should call Aimee right now and let her give him the bollocking he deserves.

“Fucking hell, Grimshaw.” 

*

Nick feels like a complete idiot.

He spends the next day moaning around the flat. Like, how could his body betray him like that? He thought they were on the same side. _He_ isn’t the bloody teenager in this situation. He should be _better than this_. It’s depressing to know he’s not. 

So he lies around the flat and doesn’t call any of his friends, especially not Aimee or Henry or Pixie or even Gillian because they’d know. They just would. 

But that means there’s nothing to distract him. He watches telly and while Ross lectures Rachel about grammar, he remembers how weak and broken Harry sounded when he moaned “please” into Nick’s mouth. Nigella whisks some eggs, and all Nick can think about is how Harry’s cock felt pressed hot and hard against his hip. Someone cries over a newly remodeled garden and Nick remembers how sad and confused Harry looked when he ran off and promptly feels like an idiot again. 

It’s a shame cycle. A cycle of shame. 

He ends up avoiding Harry in the process. 

First it’s a _hey_ and then later a _what’s up?_ and Nick didn’t think _oh, just some good ol’ self-loathing. You?_ was a good response, so he just didn’t reply. 

Then it’s a _have a good show! x_ right as he’s sitting down to impose on Dev’s last few minutes and he accidentally hits him in the face, flailing around in an effort to not reply with _NO!!!!_

Near the end of the show it’s _showbot sure is sassy today, tell Finchy hiiiii_ and Nick actually turns _off_ his mobile. 

“You’re acting strange today,” Matt says, giving Nick a speculative look from around the computer. “Even for you.” 

“Why, Finchy, I didn’t know you cared!” Nick says, plastering on a grin. 

Matt narrows his eyes. “What have you done? Is it going to make my job harder?” 

“I’ve not done a thing! How dare you.” Nick checks the time. There’s another four minutes before Nick has to be back on air. Four more whole minutes with a curious Finchy. “Brb, must wee,” he says, and dashes out of the studio.

By Thursday, Alexa’s mass text saying she needs friends and alcohol -- _it doesn’t matter what kind, just all of it_ \-- is an enticing invitation. 

*

“I’ll have a double vodka tonic. Those are supposed to be low in calories, yeah?” The bartender blinks at Nick with a dull expression. Nick nods. “You’re right. Give me a vodka redbull. Thanks, mate.” 

The drink is the perfect balance between sugary and burny, and Nick stays by the bar to order another one. And then an appletini shot because he feels like it. It’s been a long week. 

Harry hasn’t texted him in over twenty-four hours, and Nick’s trying not to think about what that means. 

“Alexa wants a tray of tequila slammers,” Henry says, appearing next to Nick at the bar. 

“Ohh, brilliant!” Nick loves tequila. 

Henry eyes him and Nick can see a question forming but is saved by the bartender wandering back over. He orders a double rum and coke and a shot of tequila for himself, downing it right there at the bar, and follows Henry back to the table. 

“Yes, I’ll be needing about half of those,” Matt says, reaching for one. 

“No,” Alexa says, pulling them closer. “These are all mine.” 

“Finchy!” Nick says, bumping Matt’s stool. Rum sloshes over the rim of the glass as he sets it down. “I have missed you!” 

Matt tears his eyes from the tequila and sighs. “You saw me eight hours ago, Nick.” 

“Eight long, long hours ago,” Nick agrees, and strokes Matt’s arm. Matt looks down at Nick’s hand and Nick follows the gaze. Matt blinks at him, and Nick blinks back. He can’t think of why he did that. It was just... there and he wanted to. Hmm. Maybe he shouldn’t have downed those three drinks so fast. 

“Drinks at the ready,” Alexa says. 

“But I haven’t got one,” says Matt, looking back toward the others. 

“Here, take my beer,” Aimee says, sliding it across the table without looking up from her phone.

“Three, two, go.” 

Rum dribbles down Nick’s chin and when he reaches for a serviette, his arm bumps Aimee who is suddenly beside him. “Oh, hello, Aims!” Aimee blinks, and doesn’t smile. “What?” 

“Are you avoiding Harry?” she asks. 

“What? No,” Nick lies. 

Aimee ignores him. “Because he told me you were avoiding him.” 

Nick knew Harry and Aimee becoming friends would bite him in the arse. “I’m not avoiding him,” he says.

“Good, because I invited him out tonight.”

“Great,” he says. Aimee gives him a funny look. “I mean. Great! Yaaay! Did you hear that? Harry Styles is joining us later!” 

No one reacts. Nick hates them all. 

“Hmm,” Aimee hums. “Both you and Harry are acting strange.” 

“You’re acting strange,” Nick says. “I need a shot. Do you want a shot? Let’s get shots. I’ll be right back.” 

That maybe wasn’t his smoothest extrication. He always forgets that rum and vodka and tequila aren’t his friends until he’s brought them out to play again. 

At the bar he thinks vaguely about slowing down. He’s not twenty anymore. He probably has things he’s supposed to do tomorrow. 

“I’ll have what he’s having,” says a familiar voice to Nick’s right. Nick doesn’t jump, but just barely. Of course Aimee doesn’t tell him Harry is already here and not just on his way. 

The bartender laughs and leans forward, as if preparing to share a secret. Nick rolls his eyes. “He’s been having a lot of things tonight, mate. You’ll have to narrow it down.” 

“He’ll have a Jack and coke, thanks,” says Nick. He’s doing it for Harry’s own good. Bartenders are probably alcoholics. Harry doesn’t need any more alcoholics in his life. 

Harry grins and knocks his elbow against Nick’s. “That’s what I was going to say!” 

“I know,” says Nick. Apparently it only takes four days of not seeing Harry in person to forget just how attractive he is. That’s... good to know. 

Harry’s grin falls. “Right.” The bartender sets Harry’s drink down and Harry flashes him a smile, but it’s weak. “Thank you.” 

“Harry,” Nick says. Fuck. It hasn’t even been a full two minutes and he’s already being a knob. That has to be a new record. 

“Harry!” 

Nick and Harry turn at the same time to see Matt hanging off Alexa and waving at the same time. He has one of her tequila shots in his other hand. 

“Finchy!” Harry yells and starts toward him without another glance at Nick. 

Nick follows at a more leisurely pace, and then stands on the opposite side of the table. Unfortunately that’s next to Aimee. She arches one thinly sculpted eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything. Nick’s known her long enough not to take the bait. 

A few minutes later Ian arrives and her attention shifts anyway. He still isn’t sure how he feels about that. 

It’s boring, Nick realizes, not being the center of attention. He’s gotten used to it when Harry’s around, but usually he’s right there in the middle of it with him. This being off to the side and ignored thing sucks. 

“I’ll just... be in the loo,” Nick says to no one. 

He’s really feeling all of those drinks once he’s in the toilets. The pads of his fingers seemingly have lost all sense of feeling, and the urinal is playing of a game of ‘you-can’t-catch-me.’ Whatever. He’ll wee on the wall. It can’t be the worst thing to happen to it. 

As he’s leaving, he leans a shoulder on the door and tries not to trip over his feet. He is a seasoned drinker. He doesn’t _stumble_. That’s for amateurs. He, however, is not prepared for someone to grab him by the wrist, and yelps. 

“We need to talk,” says Harry, pulling on him. 

Nick blames the traitorous rum and tequila for how easily he’s pulled across the bar. If he could run, he would. Far, far away. 

Harry steals a couple unused stools from a nearby table and directs Nick to sit on one before taking the other. This way he’s right in front of Nick. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Nick looks up from the floor. That’s not what he was expecting. “What?” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, and reaches for Nick’s hand. He stops halfway there and curses quietly. “Look, I know I’ve made things weird, but we can fix it. I can fix it.”

“Uh,” Nick says eloquently. “You haven’t done anything?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, I have. I know I have. You were very clear that you didn’t - that you weren’t interested but I pushed anyway, like maybe. Like maybe I could change your mind or something. And I’m sorry. I’m not that person. You know I’m not. I just thought.” Harry shakes his head again. “Doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m sorry. Please don’t avoid me anymore?” 

It takes him ages to spit all of that out and Nick gets distracted by Harry’s mouth halfway through. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the fact he hasn’t seen Harry in a week that’s weakened his immunity. 

“Nick?” 

“Hmm?” 

Harry furrows his brows, leaning forward. “I’m trying to apologize.” 

“Apologize?” 

“Yes,” he says. “For the other night? When I kissed you and you were so disgusted you had to run away?” 

“I didn’t run away!” Nick says. He fled. In a very dignified way. “Okay, fine. But not why you think.”

“It wasn’t because you think I’m gross?” Harry asks. 

“ _No_ ,” Nick says, emphatically, offended that Harry believed him in the first place. He pokes Harry in the chest. “Of course _not_.” 

“But you said --” 

“I know what I said! I lied, okay! I lied!” 

“Okay, okay.” He tries to catch Nick’s hand. “Then why did you say that?” 

“ _Because_.” God, it’s like Harry knows nothing. “Because you can’t leave.” 

Harry laughs, tentative and cautious. “I don’t follow, Nick.” 

“No, no, of course you don’t,” Nick mumbles. He is so tired. “I should’ve been an actor. Lies and secrets and pretending. I can do that. I do do that!” Nick hangs his head and sighs. “I’ve tried not to like you. For years and years and years and --”

“We’ve only known each other a couple of years,” Harry says.

“ _Before_ ,” Nick groans. “Before. On the telly. When you weren’t real. And then you became real and it was awful.”

“Think I’ve always been real, Grimmy.”

"No, no, not to me." Nick sighs again. Harry isn’t _getting it_. “You’re not getting it.” 

“Well, you’re not being the easiest to understand right now,” he says. “Wanna explain it to me?” 

“No,” Nick says. He can see Aimee and the others across the room. They look so far away. 

Harry follows his gaze. "Hmm,” he hums, noncommittally. “I don't -- Hey, Nick? Does Aimee know what you're talking about?" 

"This is Aimee's fault, yes." 

"Okay. I'm, erm, I'm just going to go speak with her for a minute." 

"No!" Nick springs forward, grabbing Harry's hands tightly. "Don't leave me. Not yet."

Harry covers Nick’s hands, tries to peel them off. “I’m not leaving at all,” he says. 

“Not yet, but you will. See? Already clawing to escape.” 

“That’s because you’re squeezing my wrists and it hurts a little,” Harry says, voice light and sweet despite the grimace on his face. “But that’s okay. I’ll stay.” 

“But you don’t really want to,” Nick says, letting go. He sits on his hands. “It’ll be the same way. You won’t be able to breathe and you’ll hate me but you’re so nice, you know? So nice. So you won’t run away right away, but you’ll want to. And when you finally get the chance, nowhere will seem far enough, so it’ll be in the woods. Proper forest. Like the jungle. Or America.” 

“Or America,” Harry repeats. 

“Yeah. All those trees.” Nick meets Harry’s eyes, squinting to make them stop moving and come back down to two. “Don’t run away to the trees, Harry.” 

Harry nods seriously. “I won’t, Nick.” 

Nick nods. He’s glad they’re on the same page. For once. “Because in the end you’d run away and I just don’t trust you around an open flame.”

Harry opens his mouth, shuts it, and then tries again. “Right. Um. I’m not leaving, I promise, but I need you to stay here for a minute. I’ll be right back.” 

“It’s fine. It’s whatever. Solitude is my destiny,” Nick says, slumping against the wall. He is so tired. He could go to sleep, right here. He’s slept in worse places. 

The last thing he sees is Harry talking to Aimee and a lot of pointing in his direction. 

*

Nick wakes the next morning to a small army playing the drums inside his head and a mouth that tastes like wet rug. It’s gross and he feels like arse but he’s alone in bed, so he takes comfort in knowing it could be a lot worse. 

“Ow,” Nick mumbles, weak and pathetic even to his own ears as he sits up. 

All he's got on is his pants, and for some reason his jeans and t-shirt from the night before are folded and sitting neatly on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Nick frowns. He must have been in a right state to do that. 

"Ow, ow, ow," Nick squeaks out with each step. He just has to make it to the bathroom where the glorious, glorious painkillers are. 

He leans against the doorframe, winded, and closes his eyes. If he knew where his phone was, he'd send a mass text leveraging his hypothetical future child to anyone who'd come to his aid in this serious time of need. 

When he finally makes it to the bathroom, he realizes he didn't feel like he needed to be sick until he saw the actual toilet and he falls to his knees in front of it, suddenly not sure how he managed this long. He can't remember what he drank last night but it doesn't matter, it all burns and stinks just the same on the way back up. 

Nick groans and rests his cheek on the toilet seat. "Ow." 

It's a slow process, but he manages to drink a couple glasses of water from the sink and then brush his teeth twice before taking the nurofen. It hasn't kicked in yet but Nick sighs knowing relief is on its way. 

He's had enough excitement for today and plans to curl back up in bed until he feels human again, just as soon as he has a piece of toast. And maybe one of Harry's bananas. He'll replace is before Harry visits again and will never have to know. 

Nick freezes. 

Harry. 

Harry came out with them last night. 

Harry apologized and then -- and then Nick word vomited all over him. Oh, god. 

Nick groans and hides his face against the wall next to the bathroom. 

As if he weren't embarrassed enough already. Well, looks like he'll be avoiding Harry for another week. Or three. Or forever. Yes, forever sounds like a great plan. 

Except not. Because after he rounds the corner, he sees Harry stood in the middle of the kitchen. 

Faint rememberings of Harry putting him in a cab and then helping him into bed this morning flash through his head just then. 

Great. 

Harry turns around and of course there is a spatula in his hand. He's already dressed, too, like a not hungover lump. 

"Hey." Harry smiles. "You feeling better?" 

That's right. Harry must have heard him puking up a few nonessential organs a little bit ago. That's wonderful. Whatever. It's not as if he hasn't heard Harry doing the same once or a dozen times. 

"Yeah," Nick croaks, and coughs. Harry readily hands over a mug of tea. It's his own meaning its weaker and milkier than Nick likes, but it'll do. "Thanks." 

"Mhm," Harry says, and turns back to the cooker. "You hungry?" 

"Not really." 

"Good. I made enough for two," he says. 

Nick closes his eyes and sips the tea. If he throws it all back up on Harry, well. Harry will only have himself to blame. 

At the table Nick puts his head down and closes his eyes while Harry cooks. He could almost fall back to sleep. Or die. 

He’s jolted back to the present a few minutes later by Harry setting a plate down in front of him with a thump. "I don't like beans," Nick mumbles. "Also my head. Shhh." 

Harry strokes a few strands of Nick's greasy hair. "Eat and you'll feel better." 

He would argue but his head hurts too much for that. 

Harry's silent, eating slowly and methodically while he checks his phone like a morning newspaper. It's how they've done mornings a thousand times before this. Nick pretends it doesn’t knock the wind out of him same as a punch to the gut. 

"Want more tea?" Harry asks when he notices Nick looking at him. 

Nick shakes his head. If Harry wants to ignore the giant elephant in the room, then Nick will ignore it too. 

After Nick finishes eating, Harry shoos him to the sofa so he can clean up. Nick keeps the telly off and stretches out, almost lulled back to sleep by the sound of Harry washing dishes. 

Harry moves Nick's feet when he joins him on the sofa, slotting into the sliver of space left, much like he has in every other aspect of Nick's life. The comparison is not lost on Nick. 

"Feeling any better?" Harry asks, rubbing Nick's calf soothingly. 

_No_ , Nick thinks. The fact Harry hasn't said anything is bothering him more than he thought it would. "A little," he says instead, and pokes Harry in the thigh with his other foot. 

Harry nods, seemingly pleased with that answer, and pulls out his phone again. Nick watches as he taps away on the screen with his thumb and waits for him to say something else. Nothing comes. 

"Thanks for getting me home," Nick says, afraid to bring it up any more directly. 

"Of course," says Harry, attention momentarily diverted from the phone. "You were in no condition to do it yourself." 

That's stating it lightly. "Yeah, you'd think I'd know not to mix rum and tequila anymore."

"You'd think," says Harry, attention returning to the phone. 

"I, uh," Nick stutters, trying to keep the conversation going. "I hope I didn't say or do anything too ridiculous last night." 

Harry doesn't look away from the phone. "We don't have to talk about it."

Ten minutes ago Nick would have said the same thing, but it has to happen some time. He can't do another awkward week of avoiding Harry. "I don't really want to talk about it either, but --" 

"Then let's not," says Harry, dropping the phone in his lap. He looks embarrassed and Nick's confused. "I get it." 

Oh. That's - "You do?" 

Harry nods. "Yes."

"Oh," Nick says, not sure if he's relieved or disappointed. "So I'm guessing Aimee told about my rule then?" 

Harry looks at him, head cocked. "What rule?" 

" _The_ rule. You just said you understood." 

"Yeah," Harry says, the _duh_ implied, "I understand that you lied when you said the idea of us as, you know, _more_ was 'weird.' You were just trying to spare my feelings or whatever." Harry shrugs. "And then you said something about running away, but I wouldn't do that. I _can_ handle a little rejection, Nick. So. It’s fine." 

"Oh my God," says Nick. He rubs his temples. How did -- "No. That's not even remotely close to -- _No_ , look, I have this _rule_ , okay.”

"You hate rules,” says Harry. 

“Yes, I know,” says Nick, “but I don't usually make them. I made this one." 

"Okay," says Harry dubiously. 

Like pulling off a bandaid, Nick thinks. Necessary and painful, but only for a moment. "The rule is simple: don’t like people you like.”

Harry stares blankly, blinks once, and then says, “What does that even mean?” 

“It means, _Harold_ , that the people who don’t annoy me, the ones that I want to keep around in my life, are off limits. If they’ve made it that far, I’m not about to fuck it up with gross _feelings_. Come now.”

Harry's silent for a moment and then he says, "So because we're friends and you like having me around, that means we can't ever be... more. Feelings don’t matter.”

Nick nods. That was easy. 

Then Harry says, "That's stupid." 

"It is not!" Nick says, raising his voice and wincing. He almost, almost forgot about his headache. "It's mature and noble and self-sacrificing." He has thought this through. 

"The word you're looking for is 'stupid,' but whatever," Harry says, picking up his phone and tossing it back and forth between his hands. "Like, I get not wanting to ruin friendships, but you can't control feelings. Sometimes you just like someone and can't help it." 

Christ, does he know that or what. But still. "No," Nick says anyway. 

Harry exhales loudly and throws himself against the back of the sofa, tapping away on his phone again, and Nick blinks. Harry so rarely acts his age that Nick often forgets the age gap. 

“Well,” Nick says hesitantly, “now that’s settled --” 

“I see where you’re coming from, I do, okay,” Harry says, putting the phone down and talking over him, “but not all relationships end badly. Exes stay friends all the time. I’m still friends with most of mine. Isn’t it worth it to try?” 

Nick rubs his head. He is too hungover for this. “No because I know how it ends. It ends the same way every time. They leave. I get obsessive or demanding or clingy, and they all run away in the end just to get free, and mostly I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“Nick,” Harry says, and it sounds entirely too fond for what this conversation calls. He turns toward Nick. "You are already all of those things, and I haven't left yet." 

Nick frowns. "No, I'm not." 

"Nick," Harry says again. "People have made a game out of seeing how many times you mention me or my band on the radio. You text me in the middle of the night to come bake cupcakes _you_ promised _you_ would bake for work. Just yesterday you literally yelled into my voicemail because I had lunch with Niko from the label and not you. And we see each other every day." 

"That's -- that's not the same,” Nick says. There’s an important distinction he’s missing. “We aren't sleeping together." 

Harry throws his hands up. "I know! I'm upset about it too!" 

"Harry," Nick says, laugh surprised out of him. 

"You like me, and I like you. Your rule is dumb. Let’s break it,” says Harry, grinning, and when did Nick imply this was up for discussion? Harry shoves Nick’s legs over and settles himself half across Nick’s lap and half beside him on the sofa. It’s an awkward fit, and Nick’s arm automatically comes up around Harry so it isn’t trapped between them. “I know what I’m getting into. Do you want me to sign something saying I knew the conditions beforehand?” 

This is not how any version of this conversation went in Nick’s head. "I will drive you mad," he says. “You will run away and then I’ll be really, really sad. Would you want that on your conscience?” 

“Yes,” Harry says easily and in the same breath, he cups Nick’s chin and pulls him into a brief kiss. It’s over before it begins. “Because there is something you’re forgetting.” 

Nick blinks. Harry can’t just _do_ that. "What?" 

"I'm kind of famous,” he says, smirking, and Nick rolls his eyes. “And I go on these things called world tours. And when I'm not on tour, I'm still really busy. That's basically mandatory time apart." 

Nick can’t stop watching Harry’s mouth. Harry wants to be with him so much that he’s _making a case_ for himself. Nick might still be sleeping. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Harry asks, and Nick looks away from his mouth, caught. "I need you to tell me we’re doing this. I want to kiss you again, but I’m kind of tired of you shoving me away after.” 

Nick drags his eyes away from Harry’s face. He can’t possibly be expected to be rational with that staring at him. He looks at his hair. His dumb, curly, fluffy hair. Even after a night’s sleep on it. “I can’t promise this won’t be a terrible idea.” What is he doing. 

“Noted.” 

“I’m only going to get worse.” 

“That’s fine.” 

Nick shakes his head. This is a terrible idea. He’s been telling himself this for over two years. “Okay.” 

Harry bites his lip, grinning, and slides fully into Nick’s lap. “Yeah?” 

Nick is absolutely out of his mind. “Yeah.” 

“Good answer,” Harry says, and pulls Nick into another kiss. 

This one is longer, and Nick tilts his head, nose bumping Harry’s in an effort to line their mouths up better. Harry doesn’t seem bothered about the angle and when he gets his hands in Nick’s hair and _tugs_ , Nick realizes he doesn’t care either. 

It’s just like _that_ night, but better. They aren’t drunk, and Nick’s brain isn’t screaming at him to run away, and Harry wants him. The fucked up mess that he is and all. 

Harry's phone beeps from somewhere between the cushions and he fishes it out. He groans as he reads the text and then pushes up off Nick, typing as he does. He looks at Nick. “I have to go.” 

Nick nods. He figured as much. 

“But I’ll be back,” says Harry. “And you can text me as many times as you like while I’m gone.” Nick kicks Harry in the shin, and Harry grins. “It won't be anything new and it won't scare me off. Promise."

“Christ, shut up and go away,” Nick says, stretching out on the sofa. 

Harry finds his boots by the door and maintains eye contact with Nick as he puts them on. “Okay, but I’ll miss you dearly.”

Nick tries to be annoyed. “Get out of my flat.” 

Harry blows him a kiss. “Bye.” 

Once the door clicks shut, Nick rolls off the sofa and lies on the floor for a bit. He’s still processing. 

Eventually he drags himself into the kitchen and while he’s downing a glass of water, he texts Aimee one handed _talked to Harry I think we're an us? Going to vom some more bye_ and then crawls into bed to sleep the rest of the day. 

*

It only takes a week of catching them kissing everywhere for Aimee to whine that she liked Nick emotionless and miserable better. 

***

END


End file.
